


In Keeper's Keep

by buhnebeest



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Amnesia, Kid Fic, M/M, OR IS IT, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brad wakes up, the pillow under his head is not his rifle, and the pleasantly cold breeze on his face is not the desert night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Keeper's Keep

 

When Brad wakes up, the pillow under his head is not his rifle, and the pleasantly cold breeze on his face is not the desert night.

He tenses, forcibly refrains from jerking upright. Instead, he very calmly wiggles his fingers, curls his toes, flexes the muscles in his shins. He listens for the beep of a heart monitor and only opens his eyes when he registers nothing but the ticking of a clock, some birds in the distance and a shower running.

He’s not in a hospital room. The only source of light is an alarm clock on the nightstand (just past 0700 hours), but it’s enough to identify the typical features of a bourgeoisie civilian bedroom, down to the flat screen TV and framed photographs on the walls. It belongs to someone unworriedly wealthy and unashamedly indulgent of creature comforts, going by the plush carpet that would be soft under bare feet, the heavy dark curtains that don’t let in even a blink of light, and the bed, which is a gigantic monster that can actually fit even Brad without his feet sticking out, and is covered in a decadent lather of soft sheets.                        

So his one-night-stand turned out to be classier and undoubtedly more obnoxious than what he usually bothers with. It’s been a while since Brad consumed enough alcohol to induce quite this lack of memory, but it’s not like he doesn't know how to handle a walk of shame. He’s at least sure that any morning-after scenario would benefit greatly from him not being present for it.

He gets up – too quickly, there’s a sharp pain in his temple that does not appreciate the momentum – and looks around for his clothes.

There’s a noise from behind one of the doors, the sudden absence of running water and then a smooth masculine voice humming some unfamiliar pop song, cheerful and completely off-key. Brad grimaces. He’s really not in the mood for a no doubt riveting altercation with someone’s righteously pissed-off husband. This is exactly why he usually goes for whores: no fucking drama. 

Brad curses inwardly. There’s no time to find his stuff, so he’s just going to have to deal with it. He turns on the light and grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around his waist.

The door opens.

The guy doesn't seem to take notice of him at all, toweling his hair dry and walking straight for the closet, another towel hanging low on his hips. He’s still humming, a little bounce in his step, and Brad feels obscurely guilty fucking up his day like this.

The guy drops the towel and glances over his shoulder, meeting Brad’s eyes and, bizarrely, grinning at him before turning to dig through the closet. Brad jolts with a shock of belated recognition, his spine going automatically rigid in a surprised parade rest. 

It’s Lieutenant Fick.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, I was just coming to wake you,” Fick says, sliding into a pair of dark slacks, “Lily texted to say she’s stuck in traffic so she’ll be twenty minutes late. Please don’t lecture her about it, you’ll only regret it later and buy her something ridiculous to make up for it, and you told me to protect you from another one of Tony’s sermons about our white guilt.”

Brad stares at him, a slow icy dread pooling in his gut. Fick looks different from when Brad last saw him, older. His baby face has matured into classically handsome features, and he has a charming set of crow’s feet decorating his eyes. He seems distinguished and compelling in a way that’s more suited to an officer than how he looked last week in uniform, even though the non-regulation haircut and artfully trimmed beard clearly denote him a civilian.

“… and I should be able to be home by five today, I delegated the O’Connor thing to Alex after all, aren’t you proud?” Fick grins over at Brad, clearly expecting some kind of ribbing response, but Brad can barely hear him over the heady surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He watches Fick’s smile melt into a frown, his hands slowing where he’s fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “Hey, are you okay?”

He walks over and puts a hand on Brad’s hip, leaning into Brad’s space like he’s sure of his welcome. His other hand comes up to curve carefully around Brad’s skull, tilting him down a little. Brad lets himself be pulled, staying very still, registers the lingering press of Fick’s mouth to his temple, the soft bristle of stubble, the heat of his shower-damp skin, before Fick eases back to look at him, his thumb stroking along Brad’s jaw.

“You’re running a fever,” he says, eyebrows drawn together in concern, “How’s the head? You want some aspirin?”

“It’s fine,” Brad says, too quickly, and manages not to startle at the sound of his own voice, heavier than he’s used to, with a slight rasp like a lifelong smoker’s. His assurance doesn't seem to pacify Fick, whose frown instead deepens, lips pursing in disapproval.

“If it doesn't let up by this afternoon, call Doc again, okay? Promise me.”

Brad nods. Fick looks at him for a long moment, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes, before leaning in to kiss Brad again, this time his mouth. When he pulls back, he’s smiling in a way that makes Brad automatically smile back, like muscle memory.

“Go back to bed, I’ll get the panacea,” Fick orders gently, stepping away from him and leaving the room.

Brad takes a deep breath, heart pounding. He was in Afghanistan yesterday, scoping possible terrorist hideouts. Today he’s getting smooched by an officer. He sits down on the bed slowly, covering his face with his hands, thinking. Either a messed up dream or brain damage, and he’d definitely be able to tell if this were a dream. Right.

Before he can devise some sort of acceptable plan of action, Fick is back, and he’s carrying a fucking baby.

Brad was wrong. This legitimately feels like a goddamned nightmare.  

“…take good care of Daddy today, sweetheart?” Fick croons over the baby’s cheerful babbling, “He can be your Valentine, I promise I won’t be jealous. **"**

Brad tries not to tense too badly as Fick transfers the baby into his arms. It’s an Asian baby, female, with a tuft of jet-black hair and a pale green onesie, a gummy, happy grin on her face, squirming in his grip. He steadies her automatically with a palm to her back, settles her to sit properly in the crook of his arm. She reaches for his face, her little hands landing on his cheeks with a quiet smack.

“Don't you feel better now?” Fick asks, grinning, settling his hands on Brad’s shoulders and leaning down, planting a kiss on the baby’s forehead. He’s interrupted in doing the same to Brad by the rattling of a phone buzzing on the nightstand. Brad sighs in relief when Fick turns away.

He promptly deposits the baby in the middle of the bed and heads for the door Fick came out of earlier – the bathroom – locking it behind him firmly. Strategic retreat. Brad regulates his breathing, blocking out the muffled sound of Fick speaking on the phone, the increasingly loud fussing of the baby. He splashes some cold water on his face, which does nothing to distract him from the fact he can see himself in the mirror.

He looks different, not as dramatically as Fick, but enough to chase chills up his spine. There are lines around his eyes. While he still has the buzzcut and his dog tags dangling from his neck, he’s also bulkier and a few scars richer. The biggest one is on the side of his throat, thick and jagged, from his collar almost up to his jaw, narrowly missing the artery. It matches the bullet graze on his bicep.

The worst is the tattoo. It’s a tree, sprouting magnificently from his ribcage up to his chest, the vibrant greens of its foliage covering most of his right pectoral. The bark is studded with various carvings, _Semper Fi_ and a string of numbers.

“Brad?” There’s a knock on the door. “That was the office, I have to leave. Take it easy today, all right?" 

“All right,” he echoes, staring at the tattoo. That’s a serial number, and not his own.

For fuck’s sake.

He jolts out of it when another phone rings. Fick moved the baby to a playpen he only recognizes as such now that there’s a baby in it. She squeals at him happily as he approaches, holding out her arms. Brad keeps his face blank and looks around. The phone is on the bedside cabinet, which Brad takes to be his own. It’s more screen than anything else, sleek and shiny, and he has a moment where he can’t help admire it. Then his eye falls on the date blinking up at him: _Fri, Feb 14, 2014_ , and he has to work not to fling it out the window.

Twelve years. _Motherfucker._


End file.
